Fae Chronicles
by Symbolist
Summary: Sometimes beauty is not all that is required... Complete 05.05.06
1. Ocean's Heart

**A/N: **So this is now a series of short stories. Some may take a few chapters, some may just be a short poem, but most will be one-shots.

**Fae Chronicles**

Ocean's Heart

_by Fiyero Oberon_

I feel the fear run through my body as I realize what is about to happen. Already the light of the sun dances merrily on the crystalline waves of the ocean. The dark sky has begun to lighten; the horizon has turned a lovely shade of pink. I close my eyes and breath deeply in, letting the salty scent of the sea linger in my nostrils. I wet my lips and kiss the wind.

Inside, the raven-haired prince lies on his wedding bed, his naked body entwined with the sheets, his strong arms enclosed tightly around the princess, his lover, the maiden he has longed to be with all this time. All this time. I tricked myself into believing that he was in love with me. What a fool I am. Why would he ever love me when he could have the beautiful princess he believed to have saved him from the storm? Indeed, I heard him say that very thing just before the wedding this previous eve. He said to his parents, 'My lord and lady, it is true, I do love the mute girl. We all do. But I confess that although she is beautiful as she dances, my heart feels no tug toward her. I love her, yes, but as my sister. Many have come to believe that I have a quiet love affair with her, but no word of such a love has ever passed between us, neither from my lips nor from her gestures. I love this princess. I have loved her since she saved me from death. I do not want the mute girl. I want _her_.'

I remember how my heart had sunk as I listened to the prince's words, how the lump in my throat had hardened, how the hot tears had formed and burned my eyes. And for a fleeting moment, I felt true hate - I know not for whom though. The prince, perhaps, or the princess. Or the sea-witch, or my sisters for telling me of the sea-witch's spells, or myself. Myself. I hated myself in that moment, for loving him, for saving him, for begging the sea-witch to split my fin, for daring to believe my prince loved me in return. Listen to me. 'My prince.' I dare to call him 'my prince.' I am pathetic.

I looked down at the knife I hold in my hand. The silver blade gleams as the rosy sun makes her ascent. I suddenly feel an urge to run back into that bedroom, to thrust the knife into the prince's chest . . . over . . . and over . . . and over . . . and then to draw patterns on his leg, on his back, on his shoulders and arms, drawn with the knife so blood seeps through . . . and I want to tie her up and force her eyes open, make her watch him die in front of her. Then I would kill her too, though perhaps not as morbidly as him. Of course, it was not her fault.

But I can't do that. It wouldn't be worth it.

I reenter the bedroom and walk softly over to the bed where he lies on his stomach. I touch him gently. Leaning down, I kiss his bare neck. He groans in his sleep and rolls over onto his back. I run my hands down his naked chest and stomach and hips, and I kiss his mouth. For a moment, he is my lover. I brush his dark hair out of his eyes and I kiss him firmly on the mouth again and I realize that he is kissing back, though he is still asleep. I step over to the other side of the bed, and I stroke the princess's golden hair and kiss her forehead and I speak. My voice is low and rough from being unused for several months. 'You are so lucky to have him,' I murmur. 'Never let him go.'

I touch my prince one last time. 'Good-bye,' I whisper.

I leave the bedroom and go out to the balcony. My feet are still wrapped in the ballet slippers I danced in at the prince's wedding and they are still soaked in the blood that spilled from the pain inflicted by the sea-witch's spell.

And now I dance. My feet carry me and all thoughts leave me as I throw myself about the marble balcony floor. I know what I'm dancing: my life story. I twirl and step and spin and glide and I know somehow that this is a dance for him, though he will never see it. If he did see me, he would know the truth; I love him and I saved him from the storm, not her. The golden princess is a fraud.

The sun is nearly up now.

I stop dancing. My feet ache and I sit on the balcony edge. My feet slip silently into the water and the blood washes off, twirling about in patterns with the water. I untie the ribbons of my slippers; I watch them fall off with a quiet splash and float away.

The sun is moments away from being fully risen. Standing on the balcony edge, I tear my clothes off and fling them into the ocean. And suddenly I feel a white pain blaze in my feet. I let out a scream as the pain slowly makes its way up through my legs, my chest, my arms, and my head. I try to walk, but I stumble, my knees give in, and I fall in a heap on the marble floor. The agony tears me and I seize the knife and plunge it into my breast; fresh, warm blood spills out and down my body, mingling into the seawater. I scream and hot tears roll down my cheeks. I roll into the sea and with one last scream, I am gone forever.

The princess wakes with a start, swearing she heard someone screaming just outside. Standing, the princess wraps a cloak around herself for modesty's sake and slips out into the dewy morning. The sun has risen above the horizon entirely, orange and bright and still casting colorful streaks through the sky. Her eyes drift to the sea and a small smile flickers across her face.

Her prince comes out now, a cloak resting on his shoulders as well. He slips his arms around his bride's waist and leaves a trail of kisses down her neck and shoulder. She gives a sigh of content. 'Look at the foam,' she says, 'see how it dances with the water? It looks so peaceful . . . I have never stopped to notice such beauty . . . .'

He smiles. 'Yes. It is rather pretty, isn't it?'

She cups his chin in her hand and kisses him softly; and for some strange reason, his lips are salty.


	2. Mother's Child

**A/N:** _Snow White_ as told by the snow-princess herself.

**Fae Chronicles**

Mother's Child

_by Fiyero Oberon_

Sometimes I look back on that time, those split seconds when I made those decisions, and I wonder: Didn't I know? Didn't I know she was evil? Didn't I know she wanted me dead?

Of course I did.

But I also knew that locking her out wouldn't keep me safe.

The first time she had come with laces and, I admit, that time I had been fooled; I had been chopping wood out back for the seven men and her voice shocked me so much that I nearly drove the axe into the old woman's back. Pity I did not, really. I felt guilty, so of course I bought laces from the poor woman. And as I had never really learned to tie my own laces, having always been done up by my father's servants, I accepted her offer graciously. The bodice dug into my flesh, crushing my ribs; I could physically feel my face turn blue as my breath grew short. As soon as she was sure I couldn't breathe, my mother fled. I called after her; I tried to chase her. But lack of oxygen was taking its toll. I tripped and fell when my lungs could no longer handle the pressure and my head collided with a boulder; the last thing I heard was her giggling laughter as she ran away and the world went scarlet-red.

That giggling gave her away. The light twinkle of bells that emerged from those perfectly-shaped lips, painted cherry-red in attempts to enhance her beauty.

It was by my luck that the youngest of the brothers forgot his lantern and couldn't see his way through the gold mines. He returned to retrieve it and found me lying by the road, a small stream of blood flowing from within my midnight hair. His instincts were correct; he ripped open the corset and placed his mouth on mine, blocking the air through my nose and breathing life back into my lungs. He carried me home and placed me on his own bed, and nursed me all day. Only after the other brothers had come home from work was I fully awake again.

The second time I knew the truth the moment I saw her hair; those curls, the deep maroon of red wine, were undeniable. But curiosity killed the cat and I let her in again; I yearned to feel her fingers run through my hair with that comb. She played with my hair when I was little; I would lie in bed, feigning sleep, and watch through slit eyes as my mother twirled my ebony hair around her fingers. When she run the ivory comb through my hair, I closed my eyes and pretended I had just seven years again, that this was the kind side of my mother. Hot tears burned as she dug the comb into my scalp and the poison was ejected into my head. That was when I knew the truth; she had truly gone insane. My mother had almost no trace of her former self any longer. Except for her radiating beauty.

And it was all the fault of that wretched mirror. She had received it at an auction somehow, the auction of a grandmother or an aunt twice removed, or some sort of relative. The first time it spoke, it dared her to strip her clothes and stare at the truth of her body, the naked truth of beauty or ugliness. The mirror vowed it would speak the truth and tell her where she ranked on the scale of beauty throughout the land; curiosity killed the cat and my mother pulled off her lace gloves and let the satin gown slip off her body. She stood before the mirror, shaking and shivering. The mirror smirked and told her the truth: "You are the fairest I have ever seen, my lady."

Suddenly embarrassed, my mother collected her clothes and redressed herself. She avoided her bedroom for weeks after that day; she slept in my father's quarters during that time. There were murmurs throughout the castle servants that my mother would be announcing her pregnancy any day, but no such declaration came.

My mother returned to her bedroom again and the mirror spoke again: "You know you're curious." And once again, she removed her clothes, bit her lower lip, and waited for the mirror's response. "You are the fairest I have ever seen, my lady."

She became addicted to the mirror's soothing voice, to the assurance that she was fairest. The mirror never lied; she took this fact for granted. I watched her every day, stripping down to stand before the mirror. Eventually she stopped shaking when she stood up - she held her chin high and waited for the mirror's response, the same every day. Sometimes she would spend whole days locked away in her room, just staring at her reflection; the truest and barest form of narcissism.

But curiosity killed the cat and the day I turned thirteen I slipped away from the swishing gowns and formal greetings of my birthday ball and, my breath caught in my throat, I stepped bravely into my room. The mirror smiled the moment I entered and presented me with the same dare it gave my mother: "Strip your clothes, young one, and let me gaze upon you. I will tell you where upon the ladder of beauty you rank." I quickly stepped out of my crimson gown and stood before the reflecting glass; my knees were knocking as my mother's had when she had first presented herself to the mirror. "You are the fairest I have ever seen, young one."

I instantly knew the mirror lied, for it told my mother she was fairest and surely we could not both be fairest! I redressed quickly, discarding my bodice and hiding it beneath my mother's bed; she had given it to me as a present, black and embroidered along the edges. I planned to return after the ball to retrieve it, for I knew not how to lace myself up. I fled my mother's chambers and returned to the ball. But after those moments with the mirror, I could no longer look my mother in the eye.

The next day I watched as my mother again removed her clothes and stood before the mirror. "My lady, you are fair," the mirror said, "but I have seen one fairer than you."

My mother's voice was cold, low, and deadly: "Who?"

"Your daughter, Bianca."

I could have sworn my mother heard my heart pounding for it was so fast and loud to my ears.

"I don't believe you."

"Look beneath the bed."

And my mother found the corset, for I had forgotten to get it after the ball. She screamed and tour at her beautiful hair; her porcelain face was twisted into a reflection of hate and fear: beauty had become her only security. It was the only thing she knew to be true. Without bothering to dress, my mother fled her chambers and ran through the castle. The first servant she found was the stable boy, a young man of sixteen years. He stared at her as she came up to her, stunned by the vulnerability she displayed. I watched in disgust as she grabbed the boy roughly by his shoulders and planted a long kiss on his lips, letting his hands run over her bare body. Pulling back slightly, the boy half-moaned, "What is it you want?"

She kissed him again. "Kill Bianca."

"Yes . . ."

"I never want to see her wretched figure again."

"Yes . . ."

"Do it tonight and you shall receive the pleasure of a lifetime." With a squeeze to his bottom, my mother turned and hurried back down toward her chambers. The boy stumbled off, googly-eyed and drooling slightly, a silly grin spread across his face. It was disgusting really; she was twice his age.

I was prepared when the boy approached me an hour later. "My fair Bianca, might you grace me with a walk through the woods?"

I hesitated a moment, but I knew that if I stayed in the castle my mother would kill me herself; and I was willing to do almost anything but die by the hand of the woman I loved the most. I agreed to a walk through the forest; he kept his hand on the sheath of his knife the entire time.

At last he pushed me up against a tree and pushed his lips onto mine; I did not resist the kiss, but pushed his groping hands away. After a moment, I pushed him away. "Just do it," I hissed at him. "Don't try to push guilt onto me." And he pulled out a long rope and tied me to the tree.

"She commanded me to bring back your heart," he told me. "But I can't spill your blood; you're too beautiful."

"You disgust me," I spat.

He grinned and tightened the knots. "I hope the wolves don't hurt you too bad, Miss Bianca." With that he was off through the woods again.

The boy was stupid; he didn't check me first. My hands were tied down by my sides, so it was easy to reach my knife. I sliced neatly through the ropes and fled through the forest, as far from the castle as possible.

I fell into a trap the seven men had set up for animals; they took me home and fed me and I agreed to help them in return.

The trees outside the cottage of the seven men were apple trees. The trees were gnarled and dead and produced no fruit and I still look back on this detail as a cruel taunt.

The apple my mother had brought forth was impossibly red; no blemishes, no spots of green or yellow. Solid red. I knew instantly that it was poison, that the wicked woman would finally defeat me. I should have saved myself, yes; but keeping locked doors locked would get me no where, and I knew that. Curiosity killed the cat, and I ate the apple.

And I died.

It's funny, the way things work. My death brought me more life than I ever thought it would; bliss is here, where I am. I suppose I am not quite dead, but I am not quite alive either; all I know is the snow. The never-ending snow, and the blood, and the ebony trees. And the mirror. The mirror that looks at me constantly, taunting me and teasing me and whispering secrets and lies in my ears.


	3. Wishing

**A/N: **So this series may not have as much to it as I thought it might. A couple of the longer stories I had planned may now become separate stories in their own right. So watch for two or three more additions to this. :-)

This is a Cinderella drabble.

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**Fae Chronicles**

Wishing  
_by Fiyero Oberon_

The funny thing was, I truly never expected it to happen.

After watching them go off to the ball, dressed to the nines in their crimson satins and lilac silks, decorated like the trees of Christmas with ribbons and white lace and pretty baubles, I ran out to my mother's grave. The hazelnut tree had always been a refuge place for me, a sanctuary of sorts. There was an old photograph lying beneath it, the glass of the frame fragmented and the picture was blotted with wet from rain and snow and other weather cruelties. But the photograph held a picture of my mother, her dark hair up in a grand style and a small, clever smile playing on her lips. And that was why the grave was my sanctuary.

But the white gown floated from the sky and enveloped me in its silken glory. A blue velvet overskirt graced the dress and a pair of white kid shoes stylized my feet.

And with warning of a midnight curfew from the birds, I was off to the ball.

And I danced the night away.

And I fell in love.

And I ran away.

And now here I sit, a girl of the ashes. They say that home is where the heart is, so I'm never sure where my home is. I grew up in this house and I love my father dearly – but the drunken state he is constantly in hurts that love for him. But I know where my heart really is – the palace, dressed in a golden crown and a fur-lined cape. He is my heart and I wish with all my might that I could be with him again.

Wishing got me to the ball.

But maybe it will take my own actions to get my dreams to come true.


	4. Punishment

**A/N: **Rapunzel tells her story…

There will probably only be one more addition to this... so thanks for tuning in:-)

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**Fae Chronicles**

Punishment

_by Fiyero Oberon_

I am trapped.

I had nothing to do with it.

Yet I am the one to be punished.

Should it not be my beloved father shut away, imprisoned for his thievery?

Should it not be my dearest birth-mother locked up here, locked away for her fatal cravings that made her beg my father to steal?

Should it not be the wicked lettuce that is banned, rejected for its crisp, delicious flavor that first enticed my mother to beg my father to steal?

Should it not be the witch who is sheltered in this ivory tower, shunned for growing the mouth-watering lettuce that enticed my mother to beg my father to steal?

What did I have to do with it?

Nothing.

I had nothing to do with it.

Yet I am the one to be punished.

And so I rebel; it is not much, but it is all I can do:

I do not speak with the witch when she calls.

I spit on her as she climbs my sinfully long hair.

I toss the food she brings out the window.

I rip any and all clothing to shreds.

I spit.

I toss.

I rip.

I love.

He is so different from the witch.

His hands are smooth and warm; hers are calloused and cold.

His eyes are dark; hers are nearly white.

His build is strong; other than her arms, she is weak.

He is beautiful; she is ugly.

He seems surprised to see me lying on the stone floor of my ivory tower, my hair surrounding me in all its golden glory, my flesh exposed to him. I see the pleasure in his eyes, in the way he flushes excitedly, on the way he stiffens when I stand.

Words are hardly spoken before I am kissing him and he is kissing me and his hands are exploring me and my hands are working at the complicated ties and buttons of his regal clothing.

And I let him go, knowing he will come again.

And he does.

And we play all over again.

And after three months of this, the witch sees the small bulge in my stomach.

And she cuts my hair.

And I am free.

Yet my freedom is a punishment without the warmth of his body.

I had everything to do with it.

And now I'm being punished.


	5. Beautiful

**A/N:** For those wondering, yes this is a repost... I took it off and reposted it because I felt ripped off that I completed this on one of the days that ff.n was backed up and it got pushed to the bottom of the page before anyone even noticed that it was there... so yeah... :-D

The fifth and final installment, a twisted version of Sleeping Beauty… I hope you have enjoyed these rather dark renditions of the princess tales… And don't forget to review!

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**Fae Chronicles**

Beautiful

_Fiyero Oberon_

Her eyes are closed, dark lashes resting delicately on perfect, porcelain skin. Her lips are blood-red, but other than her lips her face appears totally lifeless, void of all color. The tone of her skin is snow-white, a deathly pale color that makes him wonder if she is even alive. She has a tangle of brown curls framing her pale face, spread out on the pillow like a fan, and deep, red roses, like those that gently ornament the wicked thicket of thorn around the tower, are set delicately in her hair, as though just recently plucked from their vines and placed ceremonially. If it weren't for the life in those lips, he would turn and leave.

The room is covered from ceiling to floor in a thick layer of dust. Turning round he notices the trail of footprints he has left along the floor with his bare feet; his shoes and stockings were lost in the battle against the thorns. His entire uniform is rather shabby-looking, after the journey and then the awful battle; his cape flutters in tatters; his breeches hang loosely over thorn-scarred legs; his shirt is ripped and an especially long tear reveals a nasty cut, which has stained the garment with blood. There is still something about him though that suggests a regal presence; perhaps it is the way he still puffs out his chest and holds his head high; perhaps it is the curly wave of his golden hair; perhaps it is the very fabric these torn and tattered clothes are made of, the elegant silk of the shirt and the rich velvet of the cape. Somehow an air of royalty lingers about this youth, despite his ratty appearance.

A breeze blows in from the balcony window and the young heir steps toward it, his features molded into an expression of curiosity. The thorny branches have crept up to the balcony, wrapping around the small pillars and even reaching to the curtains to poke and prod. But he notices how the cruel thicket does not enter the chamber of the sleeping girl. He sees the branches twist their way up between his legs and pulls away sharply, creating another long gash in his calf. He steps back into the bed room and the branches start to follow, but pull away, as though there is an invisible barrier blocking off the room.

He feels a sudden chill run up his spine and he turns to look at the window; but the curtains have not moved. The only change seems to be the sun in the distance, now suddenly seeming dangerously low, ready to dip away into the earth, ready to hibernate for the night. And something is telling him to stay away from the girl, that she is dangerous, that the deep red of those lips is just painted on to entice him, that she is _dead_. And, for some reason, that something that is telling him to pull away draws him nearer.

The dress she wears is intricately brocaded in a clean, white color. The skirts of the gown are spread out the bed, folded intricately and delicately, spreading out the floral pattern prettily. The gilded silver crown set among her brunette curls suggests royalty, or nobility at the very least. Red rose petals are scattered on the pillows, bed, and even on the girl herself, and for some reason he has the creepy feeling that he didn't see those before he stepped out on the balcony. The setting sun throws an eerie red glow over the bed, playing delicately on the girl's lovely features.

Her breast rises and falls in a deep breath, signaling to the youth that this regal girl is indeed alive; he swears that he hears that something from before let out an oath of disappointment, the same something that told him to stay away from the sleeping maiden. This sleeping, beautiful maiden. This sleeping beauty.

He steps closer, examining her beautiful face, the way her eyelashes flutter gently as she takes another deep breath. And now he hears another something, and this something is pulling him nearer, pulling her toward the beautiful girl. And to this something, he does not resist.

Those intriguing crimson lips seem to protrude, calling to him, pulling him in. He longs to touch this bit of life in a fortress of slumber and death, and puts a finger gently to these beautiful lips.

And another wind enters without bothering the curtains, but this is a breeze of warmth, of delight, of heaven, and it pushes him forward lightly, and his lips, dry and chapped from days without water, meet gently with the soft, tender, scarlet lips of the beautiful, sleeping maid on the bed.

He suddenly feels hurtled backward as the room goes ice-cold and the distant sound of a screaming woman grows nearer, until it pierces his ears wickedly. And as quickly as the coldness has come, it is gone and replaced with the warmth of summer and the room is glowing, somehow glowing with a rich golden color, and the rose petals on the bed are spinning upward into a single red rose, which is spinning now in the center of the room as the heated wind stirs away the dust and the cobwebs and the sun seems to set and rise again and set and rise again and set and rise again…

A figure appears the middle of the room, beneath the spinning rose, rising up from the fading dust and cobwebs; the woman seems to be made from the cobwebs, in fact, and is the source of the awful shrieking. She lifts a hand toward him and utters a curse, before bursting into dust; and just as this faerie-woman disintegrates, the girl's eyes flutter open…

He is at the bedside, kneeling, as though he never left, and is dressed richly once again in gray stockings and navy breeches and a bottle green vest and pale emerald silk shirt and maroon cloak. An elegant golden crown is set again among the waves of his hair and the scars on his arms and legs have healed away.

The girl's cheeks are rosy and her flesh is a rich peach color, as though the paleness of death had never been there. Her opened eyes are dark, a deep, brown color, warm and happy. She sits up and her long, brown tresses fall around her shoulders. She looks into his eyes and lets a small smile spread across her face.

'Are you him?'

And something in his gut bubbles up and overflows and he suddenly knows: 'I am, my princess.'

And now they kiss, and they kiss and kiss and kiss. And he knows her thoughts, her feelings, her emotions, her heart, her passion, her love, for they are one and always have been, though they are a century apart. And the room is suddenly filling with people, servants awaken from a hundred years of slumber and a king and a queen and yapping spaniel and a purring white cat.

And though he doesn't understand all that has just happens, he realizes he doesn't need to; for he has found his maiden, and she has found him, and they are both _so_ happy.


End file.
